


Zigzag our way through the boredom and pain

by TobermorianSass



Series: Not Nauglamír [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Frotting, Hand Jobs, M/M, Politics, Power Play, lots of politics, some porn happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 21:30:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TobermorianSass/pseuds/TobermorianSass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Elven Army comes bearing much needed food, Thranduil wants to play politics, the Master of Laketown is drunk and Bard would like to be left alone, thank you very much.</p><p>50% politics, 50% porn. 100% pure power play.</p><p>“Should we continue this later, then?” says Bard, “Since I seem to be interrupting your bath?”</p><p>Thranduil raises both his eyebrows but Bard remains stony faced. The elf merely continues to stare him down and Bard feels his jaw tightening until the words spill out.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says, “That was impertinent of me.”</p><p>A languid wave of the hand dismisses his concerns, “It is of no consequence. Tempers fray,” the Elvenking says, “You might do better with a hot bath. It eases the muscles,” he pauses and then adds pointedly, “clears the mind.”</p><p>Bard scowls at the Elvenking. He is certain the Elvenking has been provoking him quite intentionally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Zigzag our way through the boredom and pain

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Кружа по миру сквозь скуку и боль](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2596793) by [Angulema](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angulema/pseuds/Angulema)
  * Translation into 中文 available: [Zigzag our way through the boredom and pain 在倦怠与疼痛中穿行](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3139244) by [jaja_be_ar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaja_be_ar/pseuds/jaja_be_ar)



It’s late at night by the time the last of the Wood Elf troops trail into the camps the Laketowners have set up along the shore. Bard knows he ought to feel grateful, or a variation on that theme, but all he feels is the dull ache of resentment and loss. The lake still steams and each night a dense fog settles over the camps always reminding them of the dragon which came from the north. The shards of Esgaroth lie in smoking ruins, his home, his livelihood, destroyed by the dragon’s fall. He has become a hero overnight, the one the people look to to lead them and it’s all too much to take in at one go. The reversal of fortune, the shifts in power, the smell of smoke and burning and death and illness, the protruding ribs and overlarge eyes staring up at him everywhere, the despair in those eyes - it’s all far too much. He may be of the stock of Girion of Dale, but Bard is a simple guardsman, used only to predicting the worst, not to instilling hope in people. ** **  
****

The Elves bring food, supplies and hope - all of these running desperately low in the camps. Things he cannot give this broken people looking to him so desperately for something, anything he can give them. But he also knows, in his dour, wise way that the elves bring so much more. They bring war and the promise of war. There will be no easy peace for the broken people of Laketown. They will march and they will march because the Woodland King wills it. They will march so the Woodland King may have his jewels. It is the price they will pay for the help they receive. It is the way of the world, where the strong demand a price from the weak. ** **  
****

And Bard must be the one to negotiate with the proud Elvenking while the Master sits in his tent descending further and further into his cups. ** **  
****

It is with this dull ache of loss and resentment that his men should be nothing more than pawns in a game played for some pretty little trifles - and a certain amount of misgiving - that he enters the Woodland King’s tent determined to do his damnedest for his people. ** **  
****

He expects many things of the Woodland King. Vanity. Primeval fierceness. A creature of the dark forests of Mirkwood - lithe, sinuous, dangerous. Androgynous, in that strange way elves always are. Temperamental. ** **  
****

The Woodland King is all that Bard expects. ** **  
****

Cold blue-grey eyes; _almost unnatural_ , he thinks. Pointy-chinned, blonde-haired, self assured like a rich man’s pampered cat. A face that is at once young and old, and, Bard observes, could be any age at all. ** **  
****

Attractive, a traitorous little part of his brain supplies and he squashes the thought immediately. There’s a time and place for those sort of thoughts and treaty-making is most certainly not it. ** **  
****

But then, treaty-making isn’t the time and place for having hot baths either. And really, the Woodland King is playing this unfair, because Bard is very aware that he’s _naked_ and he’s having a steaming hot bath. ** **  
****

Completely unexpected. Also, very unfair. Possibly well played. ** **  
****

Far be it from him, a humble guardsman, to question the workings of royalty and the higher echelons of power, but he’s fairly certain that treaties are serious matters which need to be dealt with over a table. With each of the parties fully clothed. Certainly not with a hot bath involved. ** **  
****

For one, the hot bath derails Bard’s attempts to hold onto a serious train of thought and draws his attention to itself. A hot bath. In the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the destruction the dragon has left behind. Bard cannot but admire his audacity. ** **  
****

( _his throat, glistening with sweat_ ) ** **  
****

The Woodland King delicately arches his eyebrows at him. ** **  
****

“You’re not the Master,” he says. ** **  
****

“No my lord,” Bard replies, “I’m not,” although he knows the Elf lord’s statement is purely rhetorical. Secretly he wonders how the Elvenking manages to be so unfazed. After all, he did just intrude on him having a bath. ** **  
****

“Then you must be Bard the Bowman,” he tilts his head. ** **  
****

“At your service,” Bard bows his head. ** **  
****

The Elvenking is unimpressed and waves his hand dismissively, “My business is with the Master of Laketown.” ** **  
****

_A cut? An insult?_ The Woodland King leaves those words unspoken, but Bard knows he must answer them. ** **  
****

“The Master sends his regrets; he is currently ind -” ** **  
****

“I know what The Master of Laketown is.

Bard cannot help but be fascinated by the King’s slight movements, each subtle shift carefully planned and executed, bearing a myriad different meanings. There is poetry in his movements and Bard is unnerved. He has not learnt the poetry, the intricacies of these political dances. He is merely a simple guardsman, with an overdeveloped sense of responsibility for his people. He does not know this dance, has never learnt this dance, but dance he must because he slew a dragon and is now a leader. ** **  
****

( _And since when did a simple bowsman come to rule a shattered people_?) ** **  
****

“Tell me, Bard,” and again, the slight roll of the head, the gentle tilt, the slow closing and opening of eyes, “Is it common practice for the councillors of Laketown to send humble guardsmen to treat with kings in their place?” ** **  
****

Bard frowns and opens his mouth to answer, but Thranduil cuts him off before he can say anything. ** **  
****

“You’re here by the choice of the people,” he leans forward in his bath, “A leader without a council, Bard of Laketown,” he leans back and, Bard is fairly sure, smirks, even though his lips barely move and the only sign that he might be smirking lies in the triumph shining in his eyes. ** **  
****

Two could play at this game. Whatever _this_ game is. It might cost him his head, of this he is almost certain. This is dangerous ground the Elvenking is treading - and may tread with impunity because he wears a crown. But Bard, Bard must curb his tongue and be politic. ** **  
****

“I serve the Master of Laketown,” he replies evenly. ** **  
****

“Of course,” the Woodland King smiles for a fleeting moment, “Bard the Bowman is no king. He merely follows where the people lead.” ** **  
****

Bard narrows his eyes. ** **  
****

“I lead where I am needed most, my lord,” he says coolly. ** **  
****

“All men may lead when they are called upon,” the elf retorts, and fixes his pale blue eyes on Bard, “But a man who can withstand the lure of gold and remember the dragon while his people clamour after the promise of wealth,” he raises his eyebrows and tilts his head slightly, “That bespeaks a rare nature.” ** **  
****

Bard grits his teeth, but before he can stop himself, he finds himself saying, “Rare among elves too, I have heard.

He can be politic only for so long - holding his tongue has never been his forte. ** **  
****

Bard watches the Elvenking teeter on the brink of finding his brusque quip amusing. But that moment quickly fades and any traces of amusement or languor in the Elvenking’s demeanour suddenly vanish and Bard is suddenly very aware that that was a foolish thing to have said to someone as mercurial in temperament as Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm. The wood elves are wild things, he has been told. Unpredictably impulsive. Unlike their cousins; less wise, more rash, _more dangerous_. ** **  
****

“You have a sharp wit, Bard of Laketown,” says Thranduil, “A sharp wit and less sense,” his eyes quickly flick over Bard and then return to his face, “A man with more sense and less wit might have taken the effort to bathe before making an appearance in front of the Woodland King.” ** **  
****

Bard smiles dourly, “I do not see you following your own maxim, my lord.” ** **  
****

“Ah, but you are no king, are you, Bard of Laketown?” Thranduil settles comfortably into his bath, “You are only a man of the people, as you keep telling me,” he pauses, “Tell me, man of the people,” the beginnings of a smirk form on Thranduil’s lips, “Do you buy your bread with your pretty wit and dour foretellings? Do people accept such ephemeral coinage?” ** **  
****

“I have always earned my keep, my lord.” ** **  
****

“I’m not talking about your keep,” Thranduil replies. ** **  
****

“The people of Laketown are indebted to you for your aid,” Bard chooses his words carefully, “And we will repay you when the time comes.” ** **  
****

“With kind words?” ** **  
****

“In gold,” Bard says through his teeth. ** **  
****

Thranduil inclines his head, “I do not think the people will keep you if you give away their gold,” he says softly. ** **  
****

“I am not theirs to keep,” he shrugs, “I am my own man. As I said, I serve where I am needed most. Tell me, what would you have me do, my lord, in my place?” ** **  
****

“A bath first, I think,” Thranduil leans back and shuts his eyes, “You are far too grim and far too blunt, Bard of Laketown. A bath will do you much good. ** **  
****

“I did not come here to be scolded as though I were a child, my lord,” Bard says with difficulty, “I came here to negotiate a pact. As an equal and ambassador of The Master of Laketown.” ** **  
****

“You have much to learn, Bard, before you may become Lord of Dale,” Thranduil’s voice is soft. ** **  
****

“Lord of Dale?” Bard’s heart is in his mouth. There is no reason Thranduil should know this dangerous little piece of information. ** **  
****

“I knew Girion,” Thranduil allows himself to smirk for a moment, before his features soften, “You have his look about you.” ** **  
****

_Of course_. Elves and their ridiculously long life spans. ** **  
****

“Girion was my ancestor,” he replies guardedly, “There are many among the people of Laketown who share his blood, yet you speak as though my lordship is a certainty.” ** **  
****

Thranduil looks at him pityingly, “Come join me and I will tell you why this -"

“You are mistaken,” Bard says firmly, “Dale is in ruins. There is nothing of Girion’s left to rule and above all, _I am no lord, I am no king_.” ** **  
****

If elves rolled their eyes, Thranduil would most certainly would have rolled his eyes. ** **  
****

“This conversation is taxing my neck,” he complains, instead. ** **  
****

“Should we continue this later, then?” says Bard, “Since I seem to be interrupting your bath?” ** **  
****

Thranduil raises both his eyebrows but Bard remains stony faced. The elf merely continues to stare him down and Bard feels his jaw tightening until the words spill out. ** **  
****

“I’m sorry,” he says, “That was impertinent of me.” ** **  
****

A languid wave of the hand dismisses his concerns, “It is of no consequence. Tempers fray,” the Elvenking says, “You might do better with a hot bath. It eases the muscles,” he pauses and then adds pointedly, “clears the mind.” ** **  
****

Bard scowls at the Elvenking. He is certain the Elvenking has been _provoking_ him quite intentionally. ** **  
****

( _Sitting there, wreathed in steam and sweating, water lapping at his pectoral muscles_ ). ** **  
****

“Come, sir Bowman,” Thranduil smiles ( _his eyes. predatory_ ), “There’s enough room for two.” ** **  
****

This too, is unexpected. Is he to disrobe in front of the Elvenking? Is this part of signing a treaty? Is it possible that he is being mocked? ** **  
****

This time, Thranduil does roll his eyes, “I promise you I have no dagger hidden in the bath, if that is what worries you.” ** **  
****

It isn’t, but Bard lets it go. Even he can tell he ought to hold his tongue about the little problem he’s been having for the past five minutes or so. ** **  
****

Bard smiles thinly, inhales and then he starts undoing the laces on his leather jerkin. If he ignores the problem, it will go away. Probably. ** **  
****

This is entirely unnerving. Never has he disrobed in front of another man before, let alone an elf. Pissing off the side of a barge is one thing. Disrobing for a bath, as he now discovers, is entirely another. Particularly when the Elvenking in question is disinclined to look away and instead rakes his eyes over him when he slips off his shirt. Bard is entirely self-conscious of the blue eyes fixed on him, consuming him - there really is no other word for it, he decides, because the Elvenking will not look away at all. ** **  
****

And now he’s down to his breeches and his stomach is doing all sorts of uncomfortable things inside him and his _hands_ are _shaking_ and, rather unfairly Bard thinks, his brain supplies the remainder of that sentence: _shaking the way they shook on your wedding night_. ** **  
****

Where did _that_ come from? ** **  
****

( _blue eyes. piercing. sweat glistening on a neck. water lapping at his chest_.) ** **  
****

He steels himself and then unlaces his breeches, his insides slowly churning themselves into some kind of pulp and his hands cold and sweaty. And the Elvenking _will. Not. Look. Away._ _ ** **  
****_

Bard closes his eyes and mentally whispers a silent prayer to all the Valar - and Eru for good measure - hoping that this all ends quickly. He turns away before pushing his breeches off, feeling strangely exposed, torn open and laid out for this strange elf with penetrating blue-grey eyes to read at his own leisure, even though he’s still in his small clothes and its not as though Thranduil can actually see all the million thoughts flitting through his head. ** **  
****

( _Sweat. Neck. Collarbones_.) ** **  
****

He surreptitiously presses the heel of his hand to his half-hard erection, hoping the Valar are merciful enough that the Elvenking won’t be able to see him. ** **  
****

Thranduil’s lips twitch ever so slightly as Bard steps into the bath, but by the time Bard looks back at him, he is utterly serious. ** **  
****

“To resume our conversation,” Thranduil says, once Bard has made himself comfortable, “Ruined cities may be rebuilt, Bard of Laketown, and there is little which is cursed about that mountain now that the dragon is slain. In time you will learn patience and mayhaps, learn to curb your tongue and then you may even find it in you to rule.” ** **  
****

Bard ignores the slight upon his manners. “Why would you see Dale rebuilt?” he asks instead, “That you may plunder the hoard the beast left behind as you choose?” ** **  
****

Thranduil frowns, “I care very little for the dragon’s gold. Else we might have chosen to fight the dragon long ago. No. Gold delights me not. I seek something else entirely.” ** **  
****

Bard raises his eyebrows at this. The Elvenking’s fondness for precious jewels is well documented, even among the scum of Esgaroth. ** **  
****

“Smaug has stolen from us,” Thranduil replies calmly, ignoring Bard’s raised eyebrows, “As have the dwarves. I mean to have that which was stolen from us and added to the worm’s hoard. ** **  
****

“Do you expect us to follow you in this?” says Bard, disgusted, “I will not bend the knee so that -” ** **  
****

A slender finger is placed upon his lips as Thranduil leans forward. ** **  
****

“I do not ask you to bend the knee,” Thranduil’s voice is so soft, Bard has to strain to hear him, “I would see Dale restored to its former glory,” he pauses and Bard holds his breath, knowing and fearing the words which will come next, “And you, Lord of Dale, last of the line of Girion.” ** **  
****

Bard hisses, “Would you have me killed? The Master mislikes me, if he were to hear -” ** **  
****

Thranduil hushes him, “You and I both know what The Master is. Give him gold and he will flee, possessed by dragon sickness and you may take up what is rightfully yours. There is much gold in Erebor which belongs to the people of Dale. Think of your people; you could help them, Bard of Laketown, if you chose so to do.” ** **  
****

Bard bites his lip. The gold would help, certainly. The Elvenking’s price is far lower than he expected, yet higher too. He will pour out the blood of his people in return for lordship and gold and the death of a republic. And he will do it because an elf lord seduced him with talk of the good of the people. ** **  
****

“You would have me join forces and send my men out to die alongside yours,” he says flatly. ** **  
****

“Die?” says Thranduil, amused, “The last time I counted, we had but thirteen dwarves to contend with.” ** **  
****

“Thirteen dwarves with cousins and friends in the Iron Hills,” Bard says dryly, “Thirteen dwarves guarding the only entrance. They will wreak much damage.” ** **  
****

“They will be tired and starving - if the beast has not already slain them.” ** **  
****

Bard presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, “We do not know that they are not alive. It is not my place to send my people to war.” ** **  
****

“Then you must allow me to march with my people,” says Thranduil, “Some of our troops will stay behind and aid in the rebuilding of the town.” ** **  
****

Bard bows his head, “We will pay you in gold for the supplies you have given us.” ** **  
****

“Gold?” Thranduil asks him, “Will you take our coin and give it back to us and pretend all the while that it was all your own?” ** **  
****

“We have no jewels we may pay you in,” Bard replies, the vein in his forehead throbbing perilously, “Our gold is all we can offer.” ** **  
****

“You mean our gold," Thranduil pauses, "march with me,” and its clear he isn’t playing anymore. He’s dead serious, “Take back what is yours and I will cancel your debts.” ** **  
****

Bard shakes his head, “No.” ** **  
****

Thranduil frowns, “You have nought for me. Do not presume to tell me otherwise. I do not ask - I will not be paid in my own coin,” he moves forward without warning, until he is nearly nose to nose with Bard, “The last I looked it was Thranduil son of Oropher who was King of the Mirkwood, and Bard, a lowly guardsman. I am your better, your _king_ and you _will do_ as I say.” ** **  
****

( _eyes. blue. breath. warm. lips_.) ** **  
****

This subtle but painful invasion of space unnerves and discomfits Bard. But it is more than a mere invasion of space. It is a slow stripping away of his defenses - bewildering, confusing, toying. If Thranduil comes any closer, he’ll discover that Bard has a little problem going on downstairs in his small clothes; memories of his wedding night, entirely normal, definitely nothing to do with the way the Woodland King oozes a menacing kind of sexual charm. ** **  
****

( _collarbone. wet_.) ** **  
****

Bard is now certain that this is not how treaties are signed at all. ** **  
****

“You are mistaken, my lord,” he says through gritted teeth, “I acknowledge betters who have proved themselves.” ** **  
****

“Would you call me your inferior, then?” Thranduil’s voice is low and dripping with danger. Bard takes a moment to thank the Valar for small mercies - Thranduil has no dagger on hand or surely he would be dead by now. ** **  
****

But no, that voice. _That voice_ sends a shiver down his spine and he twitches in response to it, while a dozen warning voices tell Bard that he ought to back away and _get out immediately_ before things get any worse. ** **  
****

And yet, despite his brain’s best efforts at warning him, he finds himself saying, “Equals. Not my better.” ** **  
****

The muscles on Thranduil’s shoulders ripple and quiver with ill-suppressed rage. This is it, Bard thinks, as he watches the expressions on the Elvenking’s face swiftly form and dissolve, ending in rank ire at the insolence of a humble guardsman. ** **  
****

And while he’s staring at the shifting lights in those grey-blue eyes, he misses the hand being dipped swiftly into the water. ** **  
****

He gasps and his hips buck forward instinctively as Thranduil palms him through his smallclothes. ** **  
****

“I am your king,” Thranduil whispers into his ear, his warm, lithe body pressed up against Bard’s, “Your better, _in every way_ ,” his nose, no his lips are touching Bard’s ear and then, “yes, Bard?” he breathes, his lips forming the words against Bard’s ear and his hand delving into Bard’s smallclothes and stroking his length. ** **  
****

Bard can only groan in reply, even though he’s trying desperately to muster the words he needs to defend himself against this sudden onslaught of the senses. ** **  
****

“I,” he pants, “I - I” ** **  
****

“Yes, Bard?” Thranduil rolls his hips against his and Bard moans again with the friction and the heat and the pressure of Thranduil’s slim form. ** **  
****

“No,” Bard manages to force himself to say, only dimly aware of what he’s saying, “Not my better to use me so ill.” ** **  
****

He gives in to the niggling little voice that’s been troubling him at the back of his mind. A little voice that’s been sitting there quietly harping on about how the Elvenking is _naked_ in a hot bath and how entirely inappropriate and possibly quite arousing that is. He leans forward and presses his lips against Thranduil’s, well aware that he’s crossed a line that he’s not entirely sure he’s allowed to cross. ** **  
****

Thranduil stiffens and in that moment Bard thinks he might have won this, whatever _this_ thing they’re doing is. For a moment the script is broken and the Elvenking is all at sea. ** **  
****

Lost, that is, until Thranduil kisses him back, forceful and nearly vicious and _Eru above_ , if this is _losing_ , Bard is very much more than all right with it, even if there’s a coppery taste in his mouth. Because, sweet merciful heavens above, Thranduil is running his tongue over his lips until he opens his mouth and Bard is quite certain that he’s never been kissed this way. Not with force, _with tongue_ , with Thranduil’s tongue slipping and curling around his own. ** **  
****

_Oh_. ** **  
****

Thranduil pulls away, “You cannot win with such ill disguised tricks,” he whispers into Bard’s ear. He presses a kiss on Bard’s jaw, “tricks an elfling would see straight through,” he kisses a line down Bard’s neck and Bard shudders at the Elvenking’s touch, his lips pressing roughly against his sun-toughened skin. ** **  
****

“Tricks?” Bard asks him thickly, running his hand up Thranduil’s chest ( _skin so supple and taut. finely toned muscle_ ), “These are no tricks, Master Elf.” ** **  
****

He takes Thranduil in hand and strokes his length, never once taking his eyes off Thranduil’s face. He can feel the instant hardening, the throbbing of the vein, as Thranduil’s eyes flicker shut for a moment, one short moment. ** **  
****

Thranduil moves swiftly, before Bard can defend himself. In a moment the Elvenking has his wrists pinned against the walls of the bath, pupils blown-wide and dark with lust. ** **  
****

“Say lies, then,” Thranduil murmurs, “Lies and trickery. Is this how mortals deal?” ** **  
****

Bard has no time to protest the unjustness of this accusation; Thranduil rolls his hips against Bard and _by the Valar_ , Bard has never known a sensation so strong, so intensely pleasurable. Not even the hot, tight heat of his wedding night matches up to this; this loss of control, this feeling of helplessness, the mix of terror and confusion and arousal, the sensation of Thranduil’s hardness slipping against his own. ** **  
****

“ _Nng_ ,” he says eloquently, and then tries again, “No, _ah_ ,” Thranduil presses down against him again, “Not lies,” he whispers, abandoning his dignity and all thoughts of the treaty he was to sign, to thrust desperately against the Elvenking, searching for friction, for purchase, for something. ** **  
****

For now, they are silent. Silent, as Thranduil pushes his smallclothes down and thrusts against him. Silent, as Bard’s fingers dig into Thranduil’s hips, leaving red imprints behind as he holds on in desperation while the elf thrusts and slides against him. Silent, as the Elvenking’s long, slender fingers suddenly dig into Bard’s back, as Bard arches into Thranduil. Silent, as Bard breathes into Thranduil’s neck and clings to him, everything a hot, fuzzy blur he cannot pierce, cannot discern. ** **  
****

“Your not lies,” Thranduil pants into Bard’s ear, “Are terribly amusing.” ** **  
****

Bard lifts his head from Thranduil’s neck, and waits for the world to stop spinning, “I,” his eyes droop shut and he moans, then lets loose a string of cuss words that would have made a bargeman blush, “I beg your pardon,” he says when he sees the arch of Thranduil’s eyebrows, “I do not -” he breaks off and whimpers, as two long fingers toy with his nipple. ** **  
****

“I’m waiting,” Thranduil says patiently and when no answer is forthcoming, dips his head down and traces Bard’s hardening nipple with his tongue. ** **  
****

_Less talking, more friction_ , his brain helpfully supplies, before it short circuits yet again and descends into incoherency as Thranduil bites his neck and then his ear lobe. ** **  
****

Bard allows his head to roll back and can do no more than hold on as Thranduil rocks them both. He is nothing but a ragdoll, a thing for Thranduil to use as he chooses, a weapon Thranduil may use against him. His own weakness, his own lust, drawn in by the promise of danger. This is basest nature, come to the fore. ** **  
****

_If this is base, a betrayal of his true nature, why can he not resist it?_   _ ** **  
****_

“You’re thinking too much,” the Elvenking whispers in his ear, “Shush.” Thranduil releases his wrists and forces Bard to look at him. ** **  
****

“Look at me,” he says and Bard tries to focus, really he does, although Thranduil is right up in his face, his forehead pressed against his and their noses are crudely pressed against each other, breath warm on each others lips. 

Thranduil rolls his hips against his and against his will, his eyes flutter shut. ** **  
****

“Look. At. Me,” Thranduil says as he thrusts again and Bard groans from the effort, the pleasure, the _everything_. 

He can hear the unspoken words “ _g_ _ood boy_ ”, when a slow smirk settles itself on Thranduil’s lips and the elf thrusts yet again, but it matters very little now, because everything is dissolving into a messy dark haze, where the world keeps shrinking in until there’s nothing but the two blue pin pricks that are Thranduil’s eyes, the warmth of the elf’s body pressed against his, his cock slick and hard sliding against his, the tiny hitches of breath that let him know the Woodland King feels anything at all. ** **  
****

And now Bard is pushing back, fast and erratic, his breaths coming in short, uneven pants and a slow heat is coiling up at the base of his spine. He plants a sloppy kiss on Thranduil’s mouth and then on his collarbone ( _collarbone. wet_.) ** **  
****

Thranduil grabs a fistful of Bard’s hair and jerks his head up and kisses him roughly, drawing blood again and Bard keens and then swears as Thranduil half kisses, half licks a line down his neck and then he bites him, hard, and every muscle in Bard’s body seizes up before he slips completely over the edge, coming hard and for a moment the world slides out of focus completely, blinding white and black spots and intense  _something_. _Pleasure, heat, death, the end._ ** **  
****

“ _Your better_ ,” Thranduil hiss-snarls in Bard’s ear and Bard moans, low, almost silent, riding out his orgasm. ** **  
****

When he finally looks up at Thranduil, he’s not surprised to see the Elvenking smirking down at him. Since when was _this_ \- whatever _this_ is - a competition? ** **  
****

Some things, presumably, Bard will never know. But he will wipe that smirk off that elf’s face, rather than let him go. ( _win_.) ** **  
****

( _touch. hot. hard_ ) ** **  
****

He takes Thranduil in hand and runs his thumb over the slit, smearing pre-cum over the head. Thranduil jerks forward in response and whines, a sound half-trapped in his throat, even as he looks at Bard, affronted. Perhaps no one has presumed to touch the Elvenking like this, or bent the rules of the game like this. Bard is certain it will do Thranduil much good. ** **  
****

( _throbbing. touch. good_.) ** **  
****

“Not my better,” says Bard, as he starts stroking and as he strokes he watches Thranduil’s eyes widen and his irises darken as Bard’s rough fingers work their way over the sensitive skin. ** **  
****

Thranduil makes a choking sound and angles his head away so that Bard cannot watch him come undone, but Bard isn’t having any of this; he will make the Woodland King look at him, he will watch this - will watch him come undone, watch the poetry of his expressions, memorize and learn each twist, each grimace, each nuance. ** **  
****

“Look at me,” he places one hand on the back of Thranduil’s neck and forces him to look at him. ** **  
****

He can tell Thranduil is trying, trying so very hard to stay in control, to not give in to his need for more friction, for more touch, trying to hold his hips still. Bard kisses him again, rough and longing and speeds up the movements of his hand. And although Thranduil will not let himself go, Bard watches all the tiny shifts in expression, the way his eyes flicker almost shut but not quite, the way the muscles in his cheeks shift, the beads of sweat forming down his forehead and dripping down the side of his face and the short, small gasps he lets out even as he begins rocking into Bard’s touch, gripping Bard’s waist hard to steady himself - the mewl which suddenly escapes him, loud in the heavy warm silence of that tent, when Bard strokes him just so. ** **  
****

And with a final thrust and a stroke, Thranduil arches, his head tilts back and he moans, moans out loud, unrestrained and filthy, as he comes, spurting all over Bard’s hand ** **  
****

They stand there, leaning against each other, panting. Any attempts at concealing this thing, Bard muses, are moot, with Thranduil’s sudden mewls and then that long moan. There will be time enough to consider that, but now is now, and the Elvenking is warm and limp and slender against him and the air is hot and heavy in a way that makes his head spin. He kisses the Elvenking, ungently, but unhurried and long unlike their kisses before. Thranduil tilts his head and responds, running his hand along Bard’s side and then squeezes his arse. ** **  
****

_Unfair. Always unfair._   ** **  
****

Bard grabs his wrist, “You bastard,” he breathes. ** **  
****

Thranduil only smirks in response. ** **  
****

“So you’ll forget the jewels?” Bard asks him. Thranduil answers by moving his lips over Bard’s jaw. ** **  
****

“Maybe,” he mouths against Bard’s stubble. ** **  
****

“I want no maybes,” Bard whispers, “I want a yes or a no.” ** **  
****

“So businesslike,” murmurs Thranduil. “Count the debts of Laketown,” he gently nips Bard’s earlobe, “fulfilled,” his tongue flicks slightly against the sensitive skin and an involuntary shudder passes through Bard. ** **  
****

Bard grins, “Its nice to see, _ah_ , we have that little misunderstanding cleared.” ** **  
****

“You’ll march to Erebor, of course,” Thranduil continues, unperturbed. ** **  
****

Bard considers telling Thranduil that this won’t be happening any time soon. But truly, is it not his duty to do his best for his people? Will they not thank him for bringing them gold with which they may rebuild their lives? ** **  
****

The way the light of the fire flickers over Thranduil’s skin has absolutely nothing to do with his decision. ** **  
****

“Of course,” Bard replies, “For the people of Laketown.” ** **  
****

“For the people of Laketown,” Thranduil echoes, but Bard does not miss the hint of smug triumph in his tone. ** **  
****

He ignores it and lets Thranduil kiss him instead.


End file.
